Stoker Gets Stoked
by Ross7
Summary: An unknown type rescue...things going 'bump' in the night...plus, a past secret passion of Mike Stoker's...provide the perfect recipe for some major practical joke playing at Station 51.
1. Chapter 1

**"Stoker Gets Stoked"**

By Ross7

**Chapter One**

**"Station 51…Unknown type rescue…2808 West Charlotte…Two-eight-zero-eight West Charlotte…Cross streets Orange and Whitman…Time Out: 20:02."**

Captain Hank Stanley recorded the call and thumbed their radio's mic'. "Station 51 KMG-365. " He passed his paramedic team a copy of the call address and then went trotting off across the apparatus bay.

"I hate 'unknown type rescues'," the Captain confessed, as he hauled himself up into the leather seat beside his Engineer.

Mike Stoker shot his passenger a sympathetic glance and then hit Big Red's lights and siren.

Both trucks pulled out of the Fire Station and onto the street, heading right—right into the…unknown.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

Six minutes later, the firemen found themselves standing under a street lamp in front of 2808 West Charlotte.

Suddenly, a woman's muffled scream came from somewhere inside the single-storied dwelling. "Help! Please? Somebody help me!"

The rescuers raced up the walkway and found the home's front door locked.

Captain Stanley pounded his fist against the portal a few times and yelled out, "Fire Department! Open up!"

Chains rattled, dead bolts clicked and a pretty, positively petrified young lady appeared. "Thank God!" she exclaimed and clutched at her racing heart. "I knew I could count on _you guys_!"

"What seems to be the problem?" Stanley asked, as they were ushered into a well-lit entryway.

The little lady looked a wee bit embarrassed. "Um…Uhhh…We-ell…you guys came so fast, you actually beat the problem here."

The 'guys' glanced at one another in confusion and then turned to their Captain, who looked equally bewildered.

Stanley took a moment or two to regroup, and then calmly queried, "Look, Miss, do you need our help, or not?"

"Oh, I very definitely need your help!" the girl assured him. "At least, I will…" she added and gazed fearfully off, in the direction of her front door.

Paramedics Gage and DeSoto heaved a pair of weary sighs and set their heavy equipment cases down.

Their Captain's patience was rapidly wearing thin. "We were sent here to rescue someone," the fireman icily informed their confusing hostess. "Now, for the last time, is there anybody at this address who needs our help?"

The girl nodded, vigorously. "Yeah. In just a few more seconds, you guys can rescue me. You see, my boyfriend saw me with this other gu—"

"—Ma-am," the Captain cut in, sounding every bit as stern as he now looked, "the **Fire** Department doesn't handle domestic disputes. If you're worried about your boyfriend, I suggest you call the **Police** Department."

The pretty miss appeared positively horrified by his suggestion. "I couldn't call the-em!"

Nothing the girl had said, so far, seemed to make much sense, but the 'guys' found her latest remark the most baffling of all.

Chet Kelly gave voice to their combined confusion. "Why not?"

"Because policemen have guns, and I don't want Nat to get hurt!"

"The Police don't go around shooting pe—" Captain Stanley began only to be interrupted, right in mid-comment, by the sound of shattering glass.

"Unless, they're shot at first!" Kelly exclaimed, as he and his colleagues hit the deck…well, the carpeted floor of the hallway, actually.

"That had to be a rock," the homeowner assured her grounded guests. "Nat doesn't own a gun."

Stanley latched onto the little lady's arm and pulled her down onto the floor with them. "Maybe he 'borrowed' one," he tersely proposed, just prior to thumbing the transmit button on his HT. "LA, this is County 51. Request police assistance at our location—"

The girl shot him a pleading glance.

"—Possible gunshot fired. Advise police to approach with caution. There could be a sniper out there."

**"10-4, 51," **the dispatcher acknowledged.

Stanley lowered his handy-talky. "Lopez, secure that door! DeSoto, douse the lights!"

Marco kicked the front door shut. Then he cautiously reached up and slid one of its three deadbolts back into place.

Roy raised his arm up over his head and flicked the hall light off, plunging them into complete darkness…almost.

"Gage, go kill that lamp in the living room!" Stanley further ordered.

"Aye, aye, Cap!" John readily replied, and went crawling off.

The lamp he'd been ordered to extinguish was situated in front of the living room's large picture window. He low-crawled over to it.

There was only one fire that John Gage refused to face, and that was gunfire. Before pulling the lamp's plug from its wall socket, the fireman determined that he would find out if they had, indeed, just been shot at. So he slid his helmet off and slowly raised it up, above the window's ledge. The sound of shattering glass was heard, once again, and the helmet went flying out of his hand. He quickly killed the lamp.

"John?" his Captain called out. "You okay in there?"

Gage swallowed hard. "Yeah. I'm okay." The fireman retrieved his helmet and then went crawling carefully back up to his concerned Commander, to report his…findings. "That was no _rock_, Cap."

Stanley frowned and thumbed his HT, again. "LA, County 51. Advise police we are under definite sniper fire here." he turned to the girl. "What's your boyfriend's name?"

"Nat—Nathan Berrows. I'm so-o sorry. I thought he was just going to beat me up."

Hank gave the remorseful girl a reassuring pat on the back and then pressed his radio's call button, again. "LA, sniper's name is Nathan Berrows."

**"Affirmative, 51. Will advise."**

"NATALIE!" a man's angry shouted voice suddenly broke the silence. "I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE! YOU TWO-TIMING—" the rest of his statement was drowned out by the disturbing sound of more windowpanes being blown out—er, in.

The firemen cringed and hugged the carpeting.

'Natalie' started to cry.

Captain Stanley did his best to comfort her.

Mike Stoker picked his head up off the floor. "Cap, unless he 'borrowed' a gun with a silencer, shouldn't there be a gunshot sound?"

Stanley grimaced again, as another of the home's windows was shot out. His Engineer was right. No loud 'bang' had preceded the explosion of window glass.

The men listened, carefully.

More glass could be heard shattering, closely followed by a dull thud, as something struck the living room's far wall and then went ricocheting off across the carpeting.

"Roy, can I borrow your penlight a minute?" Stoker requested, as he came crawling up to the prone paramedic.

DeSoto pulled his penlight from his front shirt pocket and passed it to the Engineer.

Mike took the light and started heading for the living room, on all fours.

Stoker swung the little beam of light back and forth across the carpeting. Suddenly, the light came to rest. "Just as I suspected," Mike muttered, mostly to himself.

His Captain caught the comment. "What did you suspect?"

"He's using steal ball-bearings and some sort of slingshot device."

His friends raised their helmeted heads. "Huh?" all five of them said, at once.

Stoker crawled back into the hallway and passed the penlight and the little steal ball to his Captain.

The rest of the guys huddled around him, for a closer look.

Stanley stared incredulously down at the marble-sized metal ball in his hand. "Just when I thought I'd seen it all…" he mumbled in amazement. "A slingshot? I would've sworn it was gunfire."

"When fired accurately," his Engineer began, "a slingshot can be every bit as deadly as a gun. And, judging by the way Nathan Berrows zapped Johnny's helmet out of his hand, I'd say his aim is extremely accurate."

Stanley reluctantly raised his HT to his lips. "LA, County 51. Advise police that we are under…slingshot fire and not gunfire. Repeat, sniper is using steal ball-bearings, instead of bullets, and he's a crack shot."

There were a few moments of dead air. Finally, the dispatcher responded. **"Roger that, 51...Police will be notified of your…slingshot sniper."**

Natalie stopped sniffling and relaxed…somewhat.

Everybody untensed…a bit.

Chet propped himself up on his elbows. "Hey, Mikey? How come you seem to know so much about slingshots?"

"I was the best slingshot marksman in San Bernardino County, seven years running…in my age group, of course."

"Of course," Kelly conceded, sounding tremendously insincere.

The rest of the guys were forced to grin.

Mike ignored the Irishman and continued. "It takes a lot of practice to become proficient with a slingshot. Like any other weapon, it should be treated with respect. Because, as I said before, in skilled hands, a slingshot can be just as deadly as a bow, or a rifle."

"That's right," Chet chimed in.

Marco suppressed another grin. "Chet, when was the last time you heard of someone being killed with a slingshot?"

"Well, they must a' been deadly, at one time," Kelly reasoned, following a few moments of thoughtful silence. "I mean, you don't see any giants walking around, do yah?"

This time, the guys both grinned and groaned.

The sound of approaching sirens grew louder and louder. Several police vehicles screeched to a halt. Sirens were cut and car doors were slammed.

Gage nudged his partner. "I can hear 'em now: 'Throw down your slingshot and come out with your hands up'."

"YOU MIGHT AS WELL SURRENDER PEACABLY, BERROWS!" someone yelled, through a bullhorn. "YOU'RE COMPLETELY SURROUNDED!"

There was a terrible crashing sound, followed by a great deal of frantic shouting.

The body's on the hall floor jerked, involuntarily, as someone suddenly began banging, rather loudly, on the dwelling's locked front door.

"Police! Open up!" a familiar voice ordered.

Marco scrambled to his feet, slid the deadbolt over and pulled the heavy portal open.

Officer Vince Howard entered the dark hall. "Is everyone okay in here?"

Roy reached up and flicked the lights back on.

They all started struggling stiffly to their feet.

Stanley got a kink out of his back and straightened his helmet. "We're fine, Vince…just fine."

Vince, who was decked out in full S.W.A.T. gear, breathed an audible sigh of relief and announced, "We got the sniper."

Hank heaved a sigh of relief, himself.

Natalie looked horrified and then hopeful. "You didn't shoot him, did you?"

"No, Miss," Vince assured her. "We didn't shoot him. Would you please come with me? Detective Hadley would like to ask you a few questions."

The 'guys' followed the officer and the girl out into the yard.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

With all of the multi-colored emergency lights flashing, the scene they stepped into seemed surreal.

The firemen watched the police escort a handcuffed young man up to one of three police vehicles. They noticed that the front windshield of one of the other two patrol cars was missing. Well, actually, it was lying all over the place, in a million shattered pieces.

Vince ushered their sniper's girlfriend over to a Detective and then stepped back up to Stanley and his men. He saw that they were staring at the shattered windshield. "Those steal ball-bearings are like cannon balls. You guys can stop by the station when you get off work. You can make your statements then, and sign the complaint forms."

The 'guys' gazed blankly back at the officer.

Vince saw that they seemed a bit confused. "You are gonna press charges, aren't you? Assault with a deadly weapon is a felony," he reminded them and pointed to the very sophisticated-looking slingshot device Detective Hadley was holding. "Berrows could've killed somebody with that thing!"

The fireman stared at the deadly weapon…and then at Stoker, who was standing there looking awfully smug.

"Yeah. Sure," the Captain promised, at last. "We'll be down in the morning, right after our shift ends." He raised the HT once more. "LA, Station 51 available. Returning to quarters."

**"10-4, 51."**

Stanley gazed down at the radio in his hand. Was it just his imagination? Or did he really notice a tone of amusement in the dispatcher's voice?

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

"Stoker Gets Stoked"

**Chapter Two**

"Lights out in three minutes!" Stanley warned, as he and his crew filed wearily into their sleeping quarters.

The firemen set the bottom halves of their turnouts up at the sides of their beds and then started stripping down to their skivvies.

"That sure didn't look like any slingshot I'd ever seen before," Marco remarked to no one in particular.

"That's for sure'!" Roy had to agree. "It looked more like a prop from the set of some science fiction movie."

John joined their conversation. "When I think of a slingshot, I always picture a little Y-shaped stick with a strip of old inner-tube tied to it."

Mike managed a condescending grunt. "Those types of slingshots are as obsolete as catapults."

Chet Kelly—Station 51's resident expert at pushing peoples' buttons—being ever vigilant, for any and all opportunities to tease, seized the moment. "I'll bet those obsolete slingshots are just as accurate as the newfangled jobbies. They just don't _look_ as sophisticated."

Stoker, who'd slid between his sheets, snapped bolt upright in his bunk. "You're on! Now, put up…or shut up…"

Kelly was caught completely off guard by the usually docile Engineer's daring comeback. "Sheesh! Can't a guy even express an opinion around here?"

Mike dropped back and aimed a triumphant smile up at the ceiling.

Gage crawled under his covers. "Yah know, Chet, you're probably right. The biggest difference is prob'ly in the _looks_ of the thing."

Stoker shook his head. "Wrong, wrong, wro-ong."

Marco snuggled up under his covers. "Yeah. The obsolete kind just requires more _skill_, is all."

The Engineer sat back up in his bed. His eyes began to narrow. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah!" Gage, Lopez and Kelly replied—er, teased, in unison.

"Goodnight, gentlemen!" their Captain called out and flicked the overhead lights off.

"Yea-eah? Well, you just wait! I'll show you guys…" a rather miffed Mike Stoker vowed—er, threatened, in a whisper loud enough to be heard throughout the entire dorm.

His shift-mates couldn't help but smile.

They found it intriguing that Stoker was so…'into' slingshots.

Up 'til that evening, they'd assumed the Engineer's sole passion in life was his beloved Engine, but slingshots obviously ranked right up there with Big Red, because 'Mikey' had just spoken more in the past thirty minutes, than he had in the last thirty days!

Upon hearing the threat, Hank Stanley had grinned—outright. 'It's always the _quiet _ones…'

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

It was half-past noon, on the first day of their very next shift.

After conducting some routine fire inspections, paramedics Gage and DeSoto made their way back to the Station for some much needed nourishment.

**EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE**

The pair strolled into the day room, which currently looked more like a library.

The guys were so engrossed in their reading that nobody even bothered to look up.

Roy patted his empty tummy. "What's for lunch?"

Nobody bothered to answer, either.

Seeing that the oven was on, John stepped up to it and opened its door a crack. His eyes widened. He did a beautiful double take and then turned back to his partner. "Turkey."

DeSoto looked positively delighted.

The rest of the firemen finally glanced up, looking confused.

John winked in their direction and continued. "Man! You guys must a' been hungry, too. Cuz, all you left us…is the wishbone."

The Engine crew grinned.

Roy stepped up to the stove and peered over his partner's shoulder. He stared disbelievingly down at the Y-shaped stick that was sitting in a roasting pan on the oven's bottom rack, for a few disappointing moments. Then he closed his gaping mouth and turned back to face his still-grinning friends. "What is that…stick…doing in the oven?"

Mike Stoker set his book down, rose up from the kitchen table and crossed over to the stove. "Curing!" he stated rather matter-of –factly, and closed the oven door.

The two paramedics turned to stare at each other. "Curing?" they echoed, in unison.

"Your sandwiches and salads are in the fridge," Mike informed them. He then re-assumed his seat and resumed his reading. Stoker smiled, seeing that Gage and DeSoto had followed him over to the table.

Apparently, the two of them were now more curious than hungry.

John pulled the book up a little, then went into contortions to read its cover. "The Art of Making Slingshots?" he read aloud.

"I told you guys I was going to prove that old-fashioned slingshots aren't as accurate and the newfangled fiberglass kind," Mike said, by way of reminder. "And, in order to do that, I need an old-fashioned slingshot. So I'm making one."

The two paramedics thought all that over for awhile. Then, they turned to one another, again, looking even more puzzled.

Gage's gaze slowly shifted back to the oven. "And it says, in the slingshot _recipe_, to…_bake_ it?"

Mike looked somewhat miffed again. "I'm not _baking_ it," he corrected. "I'm _curing_ it."

John mulled that over for a moment or two. "Oh…ri-ight. You're…_curing_ it." He flashed his fellow paramedic a wry grin. "Wonder what the poor sick stick is ailing from?"

Kelly glanced up from the sports page he'd been perusing. "Maybe it's got Dutch Elm disease?"

Everybody grinned.

Everybody, that is, but Stoker. "The green wood has to be cured for four hours, in a moderate oven, and for several more weeks, in a cool dry place."

"And then…?" Gage encouraged.

"And, then…" Mike continued, with the smuggest of smiles, "I'm gonna prove yous all wrong!"

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

"Stoker Gets Stoked"

**Chapter Three**

John Gage was thirsty. He crossed over to the kitchen counter and reached up to grab a glass. He spotted the piece of wood that had been 'curing' in the cupboard, for the past month. "Hey, Mike. It's been over three weeks."

Mike, and four of his fellow firefighters, were seated at the kitchen table.

Stoker looked confused for a moment, but then his face lit up. "I forgot all about it." He slid his chair back, got to his feet, crossed over to the open cupboard, reached in and pulled out the little Y-shaped stick he'd stuck in there. "Feels good," the slingshot expert announced. "It'll just take me a few minutes to attach the sling."

Mike started heading for the garage. He stopped and turned back to flash his five friends a sickeningly smug smile. "And then, I'll prove, once and for all, that old-fashioned slingshots are not as accurate as the newfangled fiberglass kind!"

Gage stared after him for a few moments, then turned to the rest of the men. He set his foot up on Mike's empty chair seat, and rested his folded his arms on his bent knee. His dark brown eyes narrowed into devious slits. "I don't know about the rest a' you guys," he spoke, just above a whisper, "but I personally feel that anyone as overconfident about winning as Mike seems to be, ought to be taught a lesson. For his own good, of course," he added and smiled innocently.

The rest a' the guys glanced at one another and grinned.

Captain Stanley leaned forwards in his seat and gazed up at Gage, looking equally shrewd and devious. "Just what did you have in mind?"

The rest a' the guys leaned in, too and waited, expectantly for his reply.

"You guys remember me mentioning my friend, Gary Woolen?"

DeSoto looked thoughtful. "The stuntman. Right?"

"Ri-ight."John nodded in his partner's direction and began to lay out his little…scheme.

* * *

The conspirators congregated out in the parking lot behind the Station.

Stoker stepped out of the apparatus bay and up to where his friends stood. He was carrying two slingshots. The Engineer noticed that they had set a row of cans up on the top of the brick wall, at the far end of the lot.

Captain Stanley motioned to the targets. "As you _can_ see, everything's all set for Station 51's first Official Slingshot Shoot-Out."

Mike looked extremely pleased with himself. "No contest!" he stated and stood there, radiating confidence. He held up the bright yellow fiberglass gizmo in his left hand. "This baby can outshoot this relic—" he raised the Y-shaped stick in his right hand, "—any day of the week!"

His crewmates just stood there, looking completely unimpressed.

Stoker passed his Captain the old-fashioned slingshot. Then he took his 'baby' over to the farthest corner of the lot. He loaded the newfangled model's ammo pouch and drew a careful bead on one of the cans. "This thing has twice the range of …_that_ thing." He shot the wooden stick a disgusted sneer and then squeezed the trigger mechanism.

None of the cans moved.

"It's pulling a little to the right," Mike explained and made a minor adjustment. Then he loaded, aimed and fired again.

This time, the can furthest on the right went flying and dropped out of sight behind the wall.

His audience appeared mildly impressed.

Stoker looked even more pleased and confident. He stepped back up to his Captain and exchanged slingshots. "I know I can't possibly reach the targets from here, using _this_ thing," he predicted, on his way back over to the far corner of the lot, "but I'm gonna take a shot from here anyways. Just to show _yous_."

"Hey, the bet was about accuracy," Chet reminded him. "Nobody said anything about distance."

Mike drew the rubber sling back as far as he dared and then let it go.

The stone hit the pavement ten feet in front of the wall and went bouncing off across the lot.

"You just didn't pull back far enough, is all," Marco quickly determined.

"Yeah," John joined in. "It just stands to reason if you want the stone to go forward further, you gotta pull the sling further back. Go ahead. Try it again."

Stoker's smugness gave way to disbelief. "Huh! I'd have to defy the laws of physics to hit those cans at this range. No matter how far back I pu—"

"—All right. Hold it right there!" Gage turned to his Captain. "Cap, I protest. We can't possibly hold a fair contest, when Mike, here, is already convinced the old-fashioned slingshot can't do the job." He turned back to Stoker. "You're underestimating the thing just because of its simplistic design and construction, and I demand that it be given another chance to prove itself."

Stanley turned to his Engineer. "Sounds reasonable enough to me, Michael."

Michael quickly overcame his astonishment. "I'm not gonna waist my time, but, if John's so convinced it can do the job, I think he should be the one to try it." He held the little Y-shaped stick up and dangled it in Gage's direction.

"Why not?" John conceded. He sidled over to Chet and slipped him a small black box.

Kelly palmed the device, then, in the process of stretching, placed both of his hands behind his back.

Gage strode over to Stoker and snatched the old-fashioned slingshot and a stone from him. "I had one just like this when I was a kid," he announced and pretended to load the little ammo pouch.

Mike's smug smile reappeared. "If you haven't had one in your hands since then, you should probably take a few practice shots. You're bound to be a little rusty."

"Thanks, but…" John turned toward the wall and pulled the strip of inner tube back as far as he dared, "using a slingshot is a lot like riding a bike." He made a big point of taking careful aim. "Once you get the knack—" he let the sling go.

Chet waited a moment or two and then pressed one of the buttons on the box behind his back.

This detonated one of the small explosive charges packed inside each of the tin targets, and caused a can to jerk and fall off the wall.

"—you _never_ lose it," Gage finished. He, and the rest of the guys, turned to witness Stoker's reaction.

Mike's amused look had vanished. "But…that…that's not possible," he muttered.

The rest of the men pursed their lips and looked away.

John eyed the wooden stick approvingly. "Yes sir. Plain and simple and every bit as accurate as the newfangled kind."

Captain Stanley sobered, somewhat. "The score stands at one all," he announced. "John, your turn to go first, pal…"

Gage grabbed another stone from Stoker's pocket and pretended to load it into his sling. Then he strolled casually up to the outside mirror of his car and swung it towards the targets. He turned his back to the wall, pulled the sling out and away and used the mirror to sight in on a can. Several seconds later, the sling was released, propelling an imaginary stone back over his right shoulder.

The guys glanced at each other and rolled their eyes.

Kelly hit the detonator button.

One of the cans jerked and went toppling down behind the wall.

Stoker just stood there, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

The guys kept their lips tightly pursed and gritted their teeth to keep from grinning.

Mike managed, somehow, to overcome his amazement enough to be able to comment. He stared wonderingly at his opponent. "Incredible! I can't believe you actually hit that!"

"I can't believe it either," John confessed, in an amazing display of self-control. He stared down at the stick in his hand, feigning confusion. "I was aiming at the can _next to_ that one."

The men had everything they could do to keep from laughing.

Gage glanced up, saw the look on Stoker's face and nearly lost it.

Captain Stanley cleared his throat. "It's, uh, your turn there, Mike."

Mike just stood there, too dazed to move.

Hank strolled over to his stunned Engineer and handed him his high-tech weapon. "You're up."

"Huh?" Mike inquired. He snapped out of his dazed state and crossed over to Gage's car. Somehow, he managed to load his slingshot. He spent a lot of time adjusting both his sights and the mirror. Finally, he fired…and missed.

"The score now stands at one to two," Hank determined. "Your turn to call the shot, Mike."

Mike didn't move.

Gage put forth another dazzling display of self-control and sauntered right up to his dazed opponent. "Here. Use this," he held out the Y-shaped stick. "I'm tellin' yah, Mike, yah **can't** miss with this thing!"

But Stoker still didn't budge.

Chet exhaled an impatient gasp and stepped up to his still-stunned shift-mate. "While you're thinking over your next shot, allow me to demonstrate the principle of Computed Trajectory." He traded the little black box in his hand for the Y-shaped stick in Gage's. He palmed the stone he pulled from Mike's shirt pocket and pretended to load the sling. "It's simple." He aimed straight up into the sky. "Just take the distance between you and your target…divide by four…and then multiply that number, according to the table of wind direction and velocity." He licked his right index finger and held it up. "Feels like an eight." He made a big thing about getting the proper 'Computed Trajectory'. At last, he seemed satisfied and let the sling go.

The guys watched Chet, as he followed the path of his imaginary stone.

When Kelly's gaze drew level with the wall, John pressed the detonator button. Another squib exploded.

Another can jerked and toppled over.

His fellow firefighters pursed their lips once more, and stared down at the pavement beneath their feet.

No one, not even John, dared to witness Stoker's reaction to _that_ shot.

"Like I said," Chet gloated, "Simple. With the right amount of skill, of course." The Irishman blew on the tips of his skilled fingers and then brushed them on the front of his shirt.

The guys finally chanced a glance in Stoker's direction. They grinned, seeing that Mike couldn't look any more confused—or amazed—if he tried.

Or, could he…?

Marco snatched the Y-shaped stick from Chet and pulled two stones from Mike's pocket. "Not bad. But watch this one…" He held the two stones up for John to see.

Gage rolled his eyes. The corners of his mouth turned up, slightly.

Lopez palmed the stones. Then he pulled the sling back…closed his eyes…and fired.

John pressed the detonator button twice.

Two cans jerked, fell _forward_ off the wall and went clanking down onto the pavement.

Stoker did a beautiful double take.

Seeing Mike's look of amazement was now quadrupled, Captain Stanley and the rest of the men could no longer contain themselves. They glanced at each other and then cracked up.

Stoker just stared back at them, looking totally lost.

The Station's alarm sounded.

The firemen struggled to replace their amused expressions with more sober ones…but weren't entirely successful.

**"Truck 123…Battalion 14…Station 51…"** the dispatcher's voice echoed out from the garage. **"Structure fire…"**

Gage pulled the little black remote control box from behind his back and pressed the main detonator switch.

The rest of the squibs exploded.

The remaining cans jerked and fell from the wall.

Stoker stared at the little box…and then at Gage, looking positively _stoked_! "You _cheated_!"

"Yeah," the paramedic came clean. "But it was for your own good," he assured him. He and his co-conspirators swapped unrepentant grins.

The Engineer's arched eyebrow was proof he wasn't buying any part of that excuse. Suddenly, Mike realized something that caused his countenance to brighten…considerably. "I _knew_ it wasn't possible! I _knew_ that relic couldn't possibly be _that_ accurate! **Never** in a _million years_!"

The guys groaned and started trotting toward their trucks.

So much for the lesson in humility. If anything, the Station's 'Slingshot Ace' sounded smugger and cockier than ever.

Hank couldn't help but smile. 'Yup!' he reminded himself. 'It's always the _quiet _ones,'

**The End **


End file.
